


Twister

by maresdotes



Series: Twister / Avalanche [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, Genderbending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maresdotes/pseuds/maresdotes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean gets a bit more than he bargained for during a hunt. What happened to him is beyond Castiel's power to fix -- does Crowley have the key to solving Dean's predicament?</p><p>Rating: M (for language)</p><p>Season:  Any season with Castiel, Crowley, and Bobby still alive and well, but not tied to any particular story arc.  Some elements are A/U (obviously).</p><p>A/N:  This is a genderbend, but a genderbend done my way. It is also a nod to my casting dream team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In A Cheap Motel Like Any Other

Dean Winchester closed his eyes. His brother watched from his perch on the bed as Castiel pulled up a sleeve to his trench coat. It was an odd gesture, as if the angel was preparing to reach into a messy jar and didn’t wish to soil his clothing. The coat sleeve took the black suit coat with it, leaving nothing but white shirt cuff around his wrist. He took a deep breath, spread his fingers wide, and placed his palm on the elder Winchester’s forehead.

Castiel’s eyes slid shut and his head cocked to the side as if listening for something. Sam looked on intently. His brother sat calmly on the edge of other bed with the angel standing in the floor space between them.

The groan started low enough that Sam wasn’t sure he had heard it. The noise built slowly, emanating from the back of Castiel’s throat. It made Sam uncomfortable as it crescendoed -- the angel’s voice reverberated through the floor and into the bed.

“Cas?” Sam leaned forward, concerned with the noise and the appearance of a hard frown on the angel’s face. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Castiel’s eyes flew open. Blue flame seeped from his blue irises, rising like vapor as the frown was replaced with terror. He stumbled backwards with a jolt, breaking his contact with Dean; hitting the edge of the Sam’s bed with the back of his legs, he sat down hard on the mattress.

“Oh --” He began, his voice low as he stared straight through Dean, the flames from his eyes slowly receding. He rubbed absently at his arm, fisting and unfisting the hand that had touched Dean. “I was not sure. Please, forgive me.”

“What happened? I thought you were going to work your mojo and change me back.” Dean frowned, glowering at the angel sitting across from him. Cas gazed at him, his eyes unfocusing. The look of terror had diminished, but he was still unnerved.

“Cas?” Dean waved a hand in front of Castiel’s face. The motion snapped him out of it.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel stated softly. “I didn’t know. There’s nothing I can do.”

“What do you mean?”

“What did this to you, it’s -- it’s beyond me.”

“Cas, you’re an angel.” Sam said as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “How can it be beyond you?”

Castiel sighed, heavily. “The human conscious is but a thimble in comparison to the ocean of an angel’s. I am but a thimble to the conscious of the essence that did this.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot skyward. “God?”

Castiel mouthed a “no” as he shook his head.

“There’s something beyond God on the mojo scale?” Dean asked, similarly surprised as his brother.

“This is hard to relate when I’m not sure I even understand it.” Finally the angel stopped rubbing his arm and smoothed the cuffs and sleeves of his clothing back to their proper place. It took him a moment to think of the correct terms. If he hadn’t looked so out of sorts, Dean would have cracked a joke about smoke billowing from the angel’s ears.

Once he had come up with the appropriate analogy, Castiel leveled his intent gaze on Dean. “Those pies that you enjoy so much, Dean -- they’re an amalgam of fruit and sugar and flour mixed in a certain way and baked.”

“Yes, but what does pie --”

“Explained in a crude way, God was the first baker and created the first pie.” Castiel continued despite Dean’s interruption. “The first verse of your Bible.”

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” Sam offered.

Castiel nodded. “But God had to get His talent and materials from somewhere. Something provided the fruit and the sugar and the flour.”

Dean smirked. “A cosmic grocery store?”

It earned him another sigh from Castiel. “No, Dean. Not a store, but it all has to come from somewhere.”

Sam turned towards the angel, his mouth gaping his disbelief. “Are you saying God has a mother?”

“As best as I can understand it, yes. If anything is to be labeled as the First, it is Her, although that is a very rudimentary approximation for what She is.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Dean asked the angel, leaning back on his palms wedged to the mattress.

“I will try to explain, but first you need to tell me everything that happened.”


	2. Two Days Earlier

“I gotta use the head,” Dean announced as he shut off the Impala in front of the gas pump. “Put in twenty.”

“Get me a water,” Sam called after his brother, getting out of the car to cross over to the pump. Flipping down the license plate under the trunk, he slid the nozzle into the fuel filler and waited for the pump to be reset from Dean’s prepay. Eventually the display zeroed. Twenty bucks of gas wouldn’t get them far in the old Chevy but at least it would put them in the next town.

Sam had the windshield squeegee washed and was waiting patiently in his seat by the time Dean finally wandered out of the convenience store. An underhanded lob deposited a bottle of water through the rolled down window into Sam’s lap.

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam studied the bottle. The water was already half drunk. “Jerk.”

A wide smile stretched Dean’s lips as he rounded the car’s bumper. “Bitch,” he replied and slid into the seat behind the wheel to turn the ignition. The engine grumbled alive.

“Just what I want to drink, your damn backwash,” Sam fussed, screwing off the cap to the bottle and wiping the opening with his palm for good measure. But it was cold and his mouth had been dry for too long. He took a sip and tried to focus on anything but Dean’s spit.

“So, did Bobby say anything more about this case?”

Dean finally spoke after he ran out of things to occupy his time. He had flipped through all the radio stations and found something that was “better than nothing.” The engine droned on in monotony under the press of the accelerator beneath his foot as they cruised along. He had shifted his weight in the old vinyl seat at least twice. The pressure of his wallet in a back pocket gradually became too annoying to ignore and he had pulled it free to wedge in the Impala’s ashtray. Now he was idly cupping the passing air in his hand as his forearm rested on the chrome trim of the open window.

“No, other than it was “weird shit going down” and “we might as well do it since we’re close and everybody else is busy”.” Sam waggled two fingers in the air as he quoted Bobby. “He gave me best approximate directions.”

“Where is it?”

“An abandoned coal mine.” Smirking, Sam waited for the protest. His brother wasn’t a fan of an underground lair.

“Ah, dammit.” Dean thumped his fist on the chrome and a scowl furrowed his brow. “I hate mines. Nothing good ever comes out of going in one.”

“Well, at least this one shouldn’t be deep,” the younger brother pointed out. “Bobby said one wing collapsed shortly after it opened and they closed that shaft. When the second one blew up, they abandoned the mine altogether.”

“Small mercies, huh?” The prospect of an abridged mine exploration did lighten Dean’s mood slightly. “Can you clarify the “weird shit” part any? I’d like to know what we might need to take care of this thing.”

“Judging by some of the reports in the local newspapers, it might be a couple demons working in tandem.” Sam rolled up his window before reaching to retrieve his laptop out of the back seat. His hair whipping around his face from the wind would make it difficult to read.

“I don’t think one could pull off something like this.” Sam flipped open his laptop and worked the mouse pad, retrieving a PDF he had made of the news article.

“Blah, blah, blah,” he mumbled as he scanned through, looking for the relevant portion again. When his eyes landed on it, he sat up in excitement. “Here it is -- “authorities confirmed that human remains were found near the east shaft of the abandoned Pheirler Mine Tuesday afternoon. While identities haven’t been established, the coroner’s preliminary report indicates that the remains were of two adolescent females and three adolescent males. Foul play has not been ruled out due to both the burned state of the remains and the surrounding area”.”

He finally spun the computer in his lap, turning it so Dean could look at the photo embedded in the middle of the article.

“Shit.” Dean was awed at the destruction as he glanced back and forth between the road and Sam’s laptop. “Wait. Were those trees stripped?”

“Yeah, as far as I can tell.” Sam zoomed the page as much as he could while keeping some detail clear. “All the branches and the bark is gone. They almost look bored out too, like some weird bowl cut.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like a scoop had been taken out of them.” Sam made the motion in the air with a hand. “What the hell could do that?”

After a moment Dean replied, smiling. “Arnold Schwarzenegger could.”

Sam gave his brother an incredulous look. “What?”

“You know, like in the beginning of _The Terminator_ where he gets transported to Earth and he’s all naked in a crater and then he’s like “gimme all your clothes”.” Dean’s voice took on a poor excuse for an Austrian accent and he flexed his arm for added emphasis.

Sam’s face formed a well-practiced, long suffering frown. “Dean.”

“And then he goes looking for “Sarah Connor”,” he continued, using the accent again. His smile widened as he caught the look on his brother’s face. It only egged him on. “Then they’re in that piss poor excuse for a dance club and Reese says “come with me if you want to live”.”

Dean’s voice mimicked distinctly feminine tones as he delivered the last line and Sam found it hard to keep a straight face.

“You done?”

Dean cracked at that point and barked out a laugh. “Yeah, I think so.”

“You sure?” Sam finally smiled.

“Maybe.”

“Well, anyway, back to the relevant points--”

“Hey,” Dean interrupted. “The “naked in a crater” part was relevant.”

“How so?”

“Sammy, you’re the genius here, not me.” Dean shifted in his seat so he could better drive, look at his brother, and the photo all at the same time. “Is there a ground zero for this scooping out? In The Terminator, it was a sphere of energy that carried the two dudes from the future.”

Sam caught on. He squinted at the photo, zooming in and out to look at the detail. The trees were carved out behind the row of body bags, but the picture didn’t show much detail of the ground or its angles.

“I can’t tell from the photo if the ground was scooped out either.”

Dean drummed the steering wheel with a thumb. “So all we know is that whatever it is or they are have enough juice to fry a human and turn trees into toothpicks.”

Sam considered that for a moment. “Rogue angels?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean’s mood soured immediately.

“Looks like we’ll have to pack the whole damn trunk for this little camping trip.” It was a little more than disconcerting to Sam as he spoke.

 

* * *

 

Around mid afternoon they found a motel on the outskirts of the ex-mining town. Sam checked in and paid -- or rather Thomas Midal paid as per the name on the Visa -- while Dean drove further down the road to get supplies. It was a standard two bed room complete with cramped bathroom, shag carpet, and furniture older than either of the brothers.

Sam unlocked their door and left it open wide enough to indicate to Dean which room was theirs before finding an outlet to plug in his laptop. He had no hope of such luxuries as free internet, but at least a fully charged computer would allow him access to all the files and notes he had compiled over the years.

He was flipping through channels looking for local news on the small TV atop a dresser when his cell rang.

“You two there yet?” Bobby asked without preamble when Sam answered.

“Just got into town. Dean’s picking up supplies then we’ll head out to the site.”

“Good.”

“Quick question, Bobby.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you read that article before you sent it?”

Bobby’s sigh came through clearly. “Of course I did.”

“Any idea what has enough juice to burn bodies and flay trees? I’d rather not go into the woods and get caught with my pants down.”

“Notice the trees did you?” The pride was evident in the hunter’s voice. “Whatever it was, it would have to be pretty far up on the totem pole. Either an angel or high ranking demon like Crowley, but I think you can rule out Crowley.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s flamboyant but not reckless. Destruction like that brings attention and usually from the wrong sources.” Bobby paused briefly. When he continued his voice was softer and carried a measure of concern. “Sam, don’t let Dean do anything stupid. I wouldn’t stick around there much after dark either.”

“Thanks, Bobby.”

Sam flipped the phone shut at the same time he heard the Impala pull into the motel’s parking lot. Dean had recognized the signal; he stopped the car in front of their room and turned off the engine.

Sam stood and crossed to the door, holding it open while he waited for Dean. His brother pulled out their cooler from the back seat of the car.

“Did you get a call?” He asked, jutting his chin towards the cell phone still in Sam’s hand.

“Yeah, it was Bobby.” Sam watched as Dean set the cooler down and popped the lid. A bag of ice had already been broken open around the bottles of two six packs. A white plastic bag held the contents of the rest of Dean’s shopping spree -- two subs for dinner to go with the beer, a small bag of apples, and four bottles of water.

“He saw the trees too, Dean.”

Dean paused, considering Sam’s words and the levity of the situation if Bobby thought enough of the destruction to remark on it. He reached into the bag for one of the waters and extended it to Sam before grabbing one for himself.

“He thinks whatever this is has to be pretty high on the food chain. He also said it wouldn’t be wise to spend too much time out in the dark with it till we know for sure.”

“Alright.” Dean took a long pull from the water bottle before continuing. “Change of plans then. Let’s suit up and see what the five-oh found. Maybe that’ll help us piece this all together or at least narrow it down. We’ll head out to the woods tomorrow morning.”

By the time the brothers had piled back into the Impala, they were both a little less road worn. A quick wash and shave before putting their dress suits on made them appear more like the federal employees they were attempting to impersonate. Sam felt thankful and a bit more human after getting the opportunity to brush his teeth.

“You’d figure one of these towns would be the slightest bit inventive,” Dean eventually remarked as they drove further into town. “I mean, name me one town that doesn’t have a Main Street.”

“Dean, I highly doubt that every single town in America has a Main Street.”

“You wanna bet?”

Sam laughed. “It’s a bullshit argument, Dean. How in the hell would I even verify it?”

“You’d just have to find me one town, bro.”

Sam figured he should be used to Dean’s inane little postulates by now, but the sheer randomness still took him by surprise. He twisted the lock knob on the glove compartment and reached in for the cigar box that held all of their random fake IDs. He fished out the two FBI badges before tucking the box away again.

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Sam asked, handing over Agent Waters’ badge to Dean. He slipped Agent Gilmour’s badge into his breast pocket.

“Nothing. Just making conversation.”

In Dean’s world “just making conversation” meant starting random arguments for the fun of it. He followed the road signs to the county sheriff’s, taking a small side street that lead behind the court office. Three cruisers were parked in the lot along with the civilian vehicles. A glass door emblazoned with a sheriff’s star decal lead in and out of the basement to the brick building.

He put the Impala in park and turned off the engine. “Let’s get what we can and get out.”

“Isn’t that what we always do?”

“Shut up and get out of the damned car,” Dean ordered, but he was smiling. After waving badges at the desk clerk, they were ushered back through to the bullpen to the deputy in charge of the case. She looked up from the form she was filling out at the sound of approaching footsteps. An eyebrow arched as she took in their suits.

“Deputy Parker?” Sam began the intros, briefly flipping open his badge for her to view before slipping it in his pocket again. “I’m Agent Gilmour and this is Agent Waters. We’re here about the Phierler Mine case.”

“I wasn’t aware anyone had contacted the Feds yet,” the deputy said, leaning back before motioning to the brothers to pull up a chair and take a seat. “But I won’t begrudge the help if you can give it.”

Optimism at the prospect of getting easy information increasing, Dean smiled. “We like to be proactive you know.”

“Right.” The deputy deadpanned. She wasn’t warming up to Dean’s usual tact of charm with the ladies. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“Has there been any leads on identifying the remains?” Sam gambled on a more direct approach paying off. “Or has there been any reports of missing persons that might be tied to the remains?”

“I have a couple ideas,” Parker sighed, reaching into a stack of folders near her right hand. She found the one she wanted and pulled it free. “I can’t confirm, but I think I know who the two females are. We had missing person filed on one of these girls shortly after it was announced we had found bodies. The other I’m just guessing on since, well, the one never goes anywhere without the other.”

Sam took the proffered file and flipped it open. Two photos were inside, one clipped to either side of the folder. He held it askew so Dean wouldn’t have to crane his neck to look at it.

“That one there,” Parker pointed to the picture on Sam’s left, “that’s Emily Sanders. That’s the one the report was filed for. The other is Amy Miller. Amy’s older than Emily by about a year -- Amy starts all the crap; Emily just goes along for the ride.”

“What kind of crap?” Dean asked, reaching over to flip up Amy’s photo. Behind it was her arrest record, loaded with petty theft, shoplifting, and underage drinking.

“If Amy got it in her mind that she wanted something, she didn’t let pesky little things like laws get in her way. Emily was probably the only person able to talk a bit of sense into that girl. I’m sure there’d be plenty more lines on that rap sheet if Emily hadn’t convinced her whatever it was wasn’t worth the time or effort.”

“Why are you so sure it’s these two?”

Parker shrugged. “Amy did most of her drinking out in those woods. Well, most of the kids around here do their drinking in those woods. The other three bodies might just be either the ones that bought her the booze or ones she had promised the possibility of a good time to -- we haven’t gotten any missing persons for young males as of yet.”

Sam took a deep breath and got to the crux of the issue. “Can you tell us anything about the crime scene itself?”

“The only thing I know is, I don’t know.” She dug into the stack for another file and pulled it free. Parker flipped it open and shuffled through a set of photos stuffed in a plastic pocket.

“You know that one scene in _The Terminator_ where Arnold gets beamed in? It was kind of like that.”

Dean couldn’t help himself. He smacked Sam’s arm with the back of his hand. “See, I told you!”

“Yes, you did.” Sam said out of the corner of his mouth and shot Dean a look that said shut up before you blow this. He got the point and settled back into his chair.

“This is the best photo I have of the scene.” She handed the print over to Sam with a sheet of paper that had it all sketched out as an aerial view. “There’s the fire pit in the middle, then the chaos just spreads out from there.”

“May we have a copy of this?” Sam wiggled the paper as he studied the photo.

“Yeah, sure.” Parker stood from her desk. She took the paper from Sam’s hand before walking across the bullpen to the copier.

“What do you think?” Sam asked quietly, handing Dean the photo.

His eyebrows lifted in amazement as he studied the scope of the destruction in glossy technicolor. “I’m kinda glad we decided not to go out there tonight.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Are they hiring art majors as crime scene sketchers now?” Dean asked around a mouthful of a roast beef, extra mayo sub. “This thing is way too detailed for the normal crap that passes at a police station.”

Sam raised a beer to his lips and washed down a swallow of his own sub -- turkey, all the veggies, mustard, no mayo -- before replying. “Maybe one of the deputies has a hobby. Anyway. Look at the position of the bodies. That’s gotta be a good thirty feet of blowback from the fire pit.”

Dean nodded. “Fanned out too, so again with the spherical terminator thing.”

“Spherical terminator thing?”

“Just go with it, Sammy.”

It was amusing as explanations went, but Sam couldn’t begrudge him that it was an accurate depiction. Something had tossed back the victims like a shockwave from a single impact. The fact that they charred where they laid was even more strange when looking at the ground beneath their bodies. The ground itself was untouched -- everything above ground saw destruction.

“These guys roasted in mid air.” Dean quietly observed. “I’m thinking they were burnt first then flung. That’s the only thing that could explain the lack of singeing on the forest floor.”

“I’m with you there.” Sam craned his neck to get a better view. “The girls are split up. You got one over here, and another over here with the boys.”

“One tried to run for it?”

“Maybe.”

Dean took the last bite of his sub and contemplated while he chewed. It was a full circle of chaos. Even if it wasn’t mapped out, he imagined the tree limbs above were in similar condition. He searched his memory for anything that remotely fit, from any hunter book in Bobby’s house to his father’s journal to odd campfire stories heard while traveling with others. Nothing fit.

“This is going to bug the shit out of me till we see it,” he finally declared. “Have you got anything in your laptop that corra-tates?”

“Correlates?” Sam offered, smirking.

“Corra-tates, correlates, copulates -- you know what I mean.”

Sam snorted. “Scary, but I do. Know what you mean, that is. I don’t think there’s anything I’ve saved that comes even close to this, but I can look.”

Sub wrapper balled up and tossed, Dean picked out another beer and an apple from the cooler. He grabbed the crime scene diagram and made his way over to his chosen bed for the night. After setting the beer and apple down on the nightstand he pushed himself across the bed to sit against the headboard. It creaked suggestively at his weight.

Dean’s chuckle made Sam look up from where he was clearing a spot on the table for his laptop. His brother wiggled again, setting off another groan of the bed frame.

“Ooh, this one’s seen some action!”

“Older, but definitely not more mature,” Sam mumbled, unable to keep himself from smiling as Dean laughed at the noise. “Dude, just stop already!”

“Aw, Sammy, am I making you blush?”

“No,” Sam lied. Watching his brother enjoy the connotations of a squeaky bed frame was not something he particularly cared to do. His brain caught up and eventually a cheeky grin spread over his own face. “But if the bed is that squeaky, just think of how many times it was enjoyed to get like that, and the fact you now have to sleep in it.”

That took the wind out of the sails. Dean sobered at the thought of the sheer amount of recreational sex required to loosen a bedframe and stopped his movement. “Wow, Sammy, way to be a fun vampire.”

Sam shrugged and sat down in front of his laptop. If pre-law had taught him nothing else, it had at least taught him proper citation and note taking. He tried to keep a running catalog on the different hunts he had either been on with Dean or heard of from other hunters. Bobby’s library had provided a lot of the source material -- if it had appeared as important, Sam made a small notation of it, otherwise he referenced the book in footnotes. That way, if he came across something within one of his notes, he could always call Bobby and ask the hunter to find the book, flip to the page, and read the relevant passages.

Whenever the brothers found themselves in a locale with an internet cafe, Sam tried to spend a bit of time making a backup of his work to the cloud; he learned the hard way that laptops had short life spans around hunters.

Laptop booted up and ready to go, Sam opened up his catalog spreadsheet and highlighted the keywords column. Using the find tool, he typed in a couple of expressions and let it advance through his summaries. He jotted down any of his hits then found the relevant articles.

“Okay, I got one here that references a Korean vengeance spirit.”

“In white bread midwest USA?” Dean shook his head. “Next.”

“Yeah, probably not.” Sam scrolled down through and opened his next choice. “Salamander demon?”

“What does it do?”

“Belches fire at its victims to roast alive in order to eat,” Sam summarized.

“Well, a -- we still have bodies, albeit roasted and b -- unless that’s some really bad breath, it wouldn’t explain the toss back.”

“Yep. Next.” Double clicking on the next referenced article, Sam scrolled through to the sub reference. “Ifrits -- strong and fiery, but no instances of being able to blow back a group of people. A couple of them might be able to though.”

“Those are a type of djinn, right?”

“Right.”

“Keep them on the short list. What’s next?”

“Lampades.”

“Lamp shadey whats?”

“Lampades,” Sam enunciated through a laugh. “Torch carrying night nymphs.”

“Mmm, night nymphs,” Dean murmured into his beer before taking a sip. “I think I met a few of those the last strip club we were in.”

“Jesus, you’ve got a one track mind.”

Later that night when Dean slipped under the sheets to go to sleep, he grinned wildly and purposely flopped in a rhythm. The frame and the mattress springs both squeaked in unison.

“For fuck’s sake, Dean,” came Sam’s tormented cry from the other bed.

Dean laughed hard in reply.


	3. When All Else Fails, Shoot It.

Sam stared at the crime scene diagram again as Dean drove the Impala towards the outskirts of town. He clutched a coffee in his hand and sipped at it absently. The more he stared, the more worried he became.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Sam!”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the next turn?”

“Oh.” He flipped over the diagram and read the directions he had jotted down from the deputy. “Five miles past the town sign headed east, left onto Rural Route 10, another two miles, then a right onto Phierler Line Road. Looking for a turn off on the right about a mile down.”

Dean made the left turn onto the rural route. “What’s eating you?”

“This thing isn’t creeping you out? Not even a little?” Sam shook the diagram for emphasis.

“Sure, it’s creeping me out,” he shrugged. Dean palmed the steering wheel and navigated around the worst of the ruts in the gravel to avoid spilling coffee down himself as he tried to sip and drive. “But going all apoplexic over it isn’t going to help.”

Sam snorted. “Kind of a big word for you isn’t it, Dean?”

“Shut up,” he said, but there wasn’t any heat in it. “Don’t dwell. We’ll deal like we always do.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Sam said into his coffee.

The rest of the short drive was made in silence. Dean found the turn off without issue and took the Impala down the narrow path towards the clearing made by years of cars pulling off the gravel road to park. It was a nicely secluded spot for a lover’s lane.

Dean’s mouth formed a hard line as he climbed out of the Impala and made his way to the trunk. Sam knew the look; whatever doubts Dean had were locked away behind that look and the younger brother had always been jealous of the elder’s ability to mask the oft crushing fear that went with the hunt.

Dean popped the trunk and shoved aside the clothing and duffles before lifting the false bottom to expose the family collection of armaments and tools. His hand smoothed over a nickel-plated Colt 1911 in nothing short of a caress before scooping it up to tuck in his belt. Sam reached for a garnet rosary and a book of incantations, sliding each into his coat pocket.

“Take the mare’s leg and as many salt rounds you can carry,” Dean instructed, pressing a sawed-off shotgun into Sam’s hand. “Backup nine-mil and two flasks.”

“Oh, and here.” Dean held out a knife hilt first towards his brother. “In case we need it.”

It was a John Winchester custom special -- a rough wrought blade set in buckhorn. It wasn’t sharp enough to cut anything, but it was perfectly pointy to stab into anything that had an allergy to black iron.

“I think we’re good,” Dean stated with certainty as he shut the compartment and closed the trunk. He had filled out his own pockets with two flasks of holy water, a pouch of salt, and the demon blade. Sam nodded and swallowed back the last of any doubts he had; the weight of the shotgun in his hands helped to steel his resolve.

A worn footpath made its way further into the woods from the edge of the clearing. Dean started towards it, stepping through the high grass. Sam followed, splitting his attention between the uneven ground and loading the shotgun with salt rounds. If he had to fire the old gun, it would leave him sore and bruised for a week, but its spread couldn’t be beat for crowd control.

On any other day, the walk might have been relaxing. Tall trees blanketed the path in shade for all but the hardiest of saplings and brush making the path easy to follow. Years of footsteps had flattened the ground smooth and hard. Sam inhaled the woody scent of warm pine and rich peat as a calming balm.

The path curled and gradually sloped down to a clearing in the copse. Dean came to a stop and whistled through his teeth. “Look at that.”

“Holy hell.”

The pictures didn’t do the destruction justice. The brothers ducked under the line of police tape that sectioned off the clearing and made their way to the center of the chaos. Trees that rimmed the clearing had bark and a measure of their wood stripped away. Some of the younger trees had cracked in half and fell from the lack of support.

“Looks like a tornado of buzzsaws came rolling through here.” Dean turned in place, taking it all in. “Counter-clockwise twist?”

Sam nodded in agreement. Splinters, limbs, and any of the split trees pointed or hanged left. Ruts in the ground arced from a starting point and ran in a quarter circle ending with a stone. The smaller rocks went a larger distance, leaving long comet trails along their path. The heavier boulders had shorter trails.

Sam stood next to where the largest boulder had come to rest after it carved a five foot path in the pine needles. It was half as wide as Sam was tall and about a fourth as deep as his height.

“Uh, Dean,” Sam started, gesturing at the boulder with the shotgun clutched in his hands. “This has gotta be about four tons of rock. Slid about five feet. Four tons slid five feet.”

Dean scowled and edged closer to the firepit in the middle. “I’m definitely not liking this, Sammy.”

“This has to be the center of it.” Sam walked over to stand next to his brother. “It all traces back to this being the epicenter.”

“Yup.” Dean pulled the pouch of salt from his pocket and began to lay down a trail around the pit and the stones that lined it. He gave it a three foot birth as a margin.

“Did they dig the pit a bit deeper and expose something?”

“Maybe, but I don’t care to find out until we cleanse it, whatever it is.” Dean was being careful with his circle, making sure that it was one clean, continuous, unbroken line of salt. When he returned to the starting point, he tipped the bag up and stepped back to his spot next to Sam.

“Read it the good word, Sam.”

Sam wedged the shotgun under his arm, resting the barrel over his forearm as he pulled the book and rosary from his pocket. Thumbing the cross, he breathed a benediction before rolling the stones between his fingertips. The book opened to the page he needed all by itself; after years of use, the binding spine had cracked to make a permanent book mark.

Focusing on nothing other than the words on the page and the beads beneath his fingertips, Sam began to chant. The words and the textures they made on his lips and tongue were memorized, but he always read from the book. He felt like it was a vital component of the ritual.

Sam kept his voice steady as the firepit puffed a cloud of ash into the air. He looked up from the book once to watch it wisp into nothingness a meager foot above the rim. When at the end, he uttered the passage’s last word of “amen” and gently closed the book. Sam tucked it and the rosary back into his pocket and stared at the pit.

Confused, Dean turned towards his brother. “Did you read it right? ‘Cause, well, that was --”

Oily black smoke rocketed out of the pit -- billowing in a pillar skyward, its shape coiled like a dozen snakes interweaving. It wasn’t dry and fuming like the aspect of a demon, but iridescent and shimmering as it climbed through the air, expanding in the space above a bed of silver fire. The coiling moved in an organic way, undulating in a great surge followed by moments of a gentle roll, twisting and turning like gigantic wringing hands. The cloud didn’t disperse like a demonic victim of an exorcism would.

“Yeah, I read it right.” Sam shot his brother a look. “Any other suggestions?”

Dean was just as perplexed. “Shoot it?”

“What?”

“Shoot it!” Dean pointed at the shotgun in Sam’s hands with the tip of the demon blade he pulled from its sheath at his hip. “Now!”

Sam did as commanded, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder. He snugged it in tight before pulling the trigger, aiming for the middle of the shape. Rock salt and lit gunpowder flamed out of the barrel in an impressive cone boring straight into the coiling mass. It absorbed the shot, sucking the particles into itself.

Sam lowered the gun and quickly racked the forend, loading another round into the chamber. The oily pitch of smoke rolled and seethed, its agitation evident. It grew in size and shape, towering over the brothers as the frenzied coils of its essence spun even faster.

For a brief moment, Sam stood transfixed, staring at the awesome shape as it resolved into the suggestion of a carved onyx woman within the coiling curtain, the inky smoke her clothing. Voids for eyes returned his gaze, drilling a terrifying stare into his soul.

He didn’t notice the tendril that shot from the smoke past the ring of salt, racing like blade towards him.

“Sam!”

The last thing Sam Winchester heard was his brother scream his name as Dean tackled him to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Birds chirping and the rustle of leaves overhead made their way into his conscious as he saw the light behind his eyelids. His head throbbed in a dull ache with the rhythm of his pulse. It was an indicator of still being alive and he happily embraced it.

Sam came to and tried to get his bearings. Tasting dirt in his mouth, he spit it out and attempted roll away, but weight across the backs of his legs prevented him from doing so. Finding his concentration slowly coming around, he put more effort into moving and was finally able to extract his legs from whatever held him down.

Rolling onto his back, Sam slowly opened his eyes. Trees swayed softly in the breeze over his head. Idly, he took a few deep breaths.

“Dean!” He scrambled upright when his brain remembered his brother. Sitting in the dirt, he glanced around but didn’t have to look far; Dean’s body was the weight that pinned him down.

“Dean!” Sam took a fistful of his brother’s jacket and gave it a hard shake. Dean’s body rocked with the motion, but it remained still, face down in the moss.

“Shit, don’t be dead,” Sam murmured, trying to pull his brother’s body towards himself. It was hard to coordinate his muscles for any type of strength. Everything felt weak and spent. Sam managed to grab enough of Dean’s jacket and shirt at his far shoulder to pull and with effort, he rolled Dean onto his back next to him.

“Thank God,” Sam sighed when he found a steady pulse beneath his fingers pressed to Dean’s neck. He raised a hand and gently cuffed his cheek. “Wake up, Dean.”

Something was off about his brother, but Sam couldn’t quite place it. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and looked again. Another cuff to the face wagged Dean’s head but he didn’t wake up. Sam shifted to kneel. Dean’s mouth fell open slightly, further softening the angle of his jaw. That’s when Sam recognized what seemed so off.

The same smattering of freckles dappled the skin on Dean’s face but he looked years younger. What should have been a line of unshaven stubble from ear to ear was pale, freckled skin. The orbits of his eyes formed a softer line around both cheek and brow. Gone was the hard angle of his jaw -- the cleft still split his chin but everything was smaller, smoother.

“Holy --” Sam breathed in awe, his hand moving from Dean’s cheek to brush over the distinct lack of an laryngeal prominence along his throat. Warily, Sam pulled on the front of Dean’s shirt, moving it to expose the anti-possession tattoo. He shifted it further to the side and saw the diminished outer red ridge of Castiel’s mark on Dean’s bicep. At least he could mostly confirm the identity of his brother from those two marks.

Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes momentarily, Sam looked down Dean’s shirt. The gears in his brain slid to a grinding halt as he realized he was now looking at his brother with a woman’s body.

“Analyze this later,” he demanded of himself. “Now’s the time to get the hell out of Dodge.”

Sam stood as fast as his legs would allow and looked around. The fire pit was once again vacant -- whatever the black inky beast was, it was gone. Retrieving the demon blade from where it had been let go of, Sam tucked it back into the sheath on Dean’s belt.

It took a moment to think about how to wrangle Dean’s unconscious form and the shotgun, but Sam eventually figured it out. He unloaded the shells into his pocket and left the chamber open, using it to balance himself while he pulled Dean up to a mostly standing state.

“At least you’re a bit lighter now,” Sam groaned as he stood under Dean’s weight draped across his left shoulder. Steadying the load, he concentrated on one foot at a time, clutching Dean with his left hand and arm while his right hand carried the shotgun.

He broke the police tape with a thigh as he walked into it -- there would be no other way to get across it while carrying Dean.

Long and arduous was the slog back to the Impala. Sam watched the ground, looking for any trip hazards as he climbed up the gentle slope that felt like a mountain under the weight of Dean and the headache strumming in his head. He didn’t dare stop but forced himself to breathe and keep going to inch his way back to their car.

Slowly Sam made it to the clearing, not having the strength to do much more than shuffle his way through the tall grass. His brain was on fire by the time he managed to drop the shotgun in the grass beside the Impala and work the latch on the passenger door. With a little bit more recklessness than he intended, he pitched forward, dumping Dean into the car.

Dean’s head thumped against the wheel as his body slumped backwards, dead and unruly weight.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologized to the unconscious form and tugged his brother upright to prop against the seat. Dean was half in, half out of the Impala; Sam slid an arm under Dean’s knees and shoved, forcing his feet into the foot well. Before he stood up, he frisked his brother for the car keys.

Sam paused for a moment as he bent over to retrieve the shotgun at his feet. He decided to take the side of caution and reached into the car again to strip Dean of any weapons. Leaving the holy water, he took the Colt and the demon blade before closing the door.

Sam deposited the weapons in the trunk before sliding wearily behind the wheel. He depressed the accelerator part way to open the carburetor and turned the key. The old girl was occasionally temperamental without her favorite Winchester behind her wheel, but she started up at Sam’s silent prayer.

“Sammy?” The timbre in Dean’s voice was off as he spoke. It was disconcerting to see Dean’s green eyes open from within the face that was not quite his.

“So the Impala’s engine finally wakes you up?” Sam wearily teased. “You jerk -- you couldn’t think to do this before I made the hump back to the car with your carcass slung over my shoulder?”

It made Dean smirk. “Bitch,” he replied weakly. The left corner of his lips lazily crept up in an uneven smile.

“Shut up,” Sam smiled, relieved that Dean was conscious despite his predicament. He drove the car around in a loop before taking it back up the narrow path onto the road. It was a quiet ride back to the motel with Dean slumped in the passenger’s seat barely able to keep his eyes open for more than a few moments at a time. Sam stole the occasional look at his not-quite-brother -- the femininity was more apparent in the sunlight than it was under the leaf canopy in the woods.

Dean didn’t refuse Sam’s help at getting out of the car once they made it back to the motel. Sam hooked an arm around Dean’s much less prominent waist.

“It feels like you grew two feet, Sasquatch,” Dean mumbled as he tried to run his arm across Sam’s shoulders.

“Um, no, not quite,” Sam replied as he fumbled for the door keys in his pocket. Eventually he got it open and Dean though the door before kicking it shut behind them. He angled Dean towards the bed, fully intending to let his brother lay down before apprising him of his sudden transformation, but he forgot about the near wall length mirror across from the beds.

“What the fuck?”

Dean was now fully conscious and staring at himself in the mirror, his hand forming a vice-like claw on Sam’s shoulder. When Sam cringed at the intensity of the grip and tried to get out from under it, Dean pushed him aside and stumbled towards the wall. He clutched at the low dresser beneath the mirror to keep himself upright but used a hand to touch his face.

“Dean--” Sam started, watching in horror as his brother lifted his shirt and flashed them both via the reflection in the mirror.

“Son of a bitch, I have tits.”

 


	4. Presently

Being pinned by the angel’s intent gaze was never comfortable, but he found it even less so when being studied. Castiel’s eyes bored into his; Sam felt compelled to look away. After a moment, Cas lifted a hand and gently set two fingers to his forehead before Sam even had a moment to protest.

The heat from Castiel’s touch spread into his body, slipping like warm honey into the entirety of him -- Sam wanted to crawl into it. For a brief moment it felt like his soul was no longer encumbered by the weight of a body. It was simply an great expanse in Castiel’s warm light. Sam didn’t give second thought to the intrusion as the angel swam through his being, tumbling him over and over like a stone in the ocean tide.

Sam gasped at the sudden withdrawal when Cas lifted his hand. Slowly he found himself again and his eyes trailed up the angel’s body till he was able to meet the blue eyes.

“You had a concussion and some minor brain swelling,“ Castiel said by way of explanation for the sudden touch.

Relief from the brewing migraine was palatable. Sam smiled. “Thank you, Cas.”

Castiel nodded once then turned his attention back to Dean on the opposite bed.

“So that’s when you summoned me?”

“I wasn’t sure what else to do.” Dean nodded. “Now spill it. You said you know what this God momma is and what she has to do with me.”

“Possibly. Hold on.”

As sudden as he had arrived, Castiel disappeared, the sound of wings buffeting the air trailing in his wake.

“I hate when he does that,” Dean said, falling back on the bed.

Sam glanced over at his brother. He was sprawled half on and half off the mattress, legs akimbo with his feet on the floor.

“How do you feel?” Sam ventured, swinging his legs onto the bed. He leaned back against the headboard.

Dean cracked open an eye and turned his head just enough so he could see Sam. “Alright I guess. Tired and strung out.”

“But, you know --” Sam began but aborted, holding his hands out in front of himself like he was holding oranges, or bowls, or other spherical items.

Dean’s lips curved into a smile. “I think I’ll name them. Nicole and Amber. Good name for twins, dontcha think?”

Sam managed a smile. “Really, Dean?”

It was a moment before Dean spoke again and his expression had sobered. “Sammy, I can’t think about it too hard right now.”

Understanding, Sam nodded. “What do you think Cas is doing?”

“He better damn well be finding --”

Dean was interrupted by the sound of wings and the appearance of the angel standing between his legs. Momentarily stunned, Dean blinked then sat up quick and slid himself back across the mattress.

“It was as I suspected,” Castiel announced, unphased by his proximity in landing.

“Dude, we talked about this -- personal space!”

“Oh yes, Dean,” the angel at least had the decency to look apologetic. He took a step backwards. “I am sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Sam stared, shocked at the body language coming from his not-quite-brother. It was all the same, just packaged differently. Not sure as to how he should feel about it, he tabled it for another time.

“So? What am I and what are we going to do about it?”

“This is not the place,” Castiel said simply. “Please pack your bags and get in the car.”

“Cas? What the hell?”

“Dean.” The angel leveled a stare which changed Dean’s expression immediately from annoyed to concerned.

“Okay, okay, I’m packing.” Dean slid from the bed and stood up. “You heard the man, Sammy.”

The brothers had few belongings which helped when needing to pack up shop quick. Clothing and toiletries were jammed into duffels. Any remaining food was loaded into the cooler. Sam’s laptop was bundled up with its charge cord and tucked under his arm. Between the two, everything was cleared out of the motel room in less than ten minutes.

“Goddammit,” Dean swore, stopping at the threshold of the room. It was the roughest Sam had heard him sound since his brother picked up new vocal chords.

“What?”

“My pants keep falling down.” He grabbed at the buckle and loosened his belt before taking it up two holes. Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Dean pulled the door shut behind him and walked to the back of the Impala. Tossing everything in but Sam’s laptop, they arranged the contents of the trunk so the weapons case could be opened if necessary.

Castiel waited in the back seat.

Dean stuck his head in through the rolled down window. “Cas?”

“Get in the car, Dean.”

“Yes, sir.” Amused but still concerned, Dean slid in behind the wheel of the Impala and patted his pockets.

“Oops, here.” Sam pulled free the keys from his jeans and dangled them up in the space next to his brother.

“Thanks.” Dean tried to depress the pedal to give the old girl some gas before turning the key but he found his foot didn’t quite comfortably reach.

“This shit’s starting to get old real quick.” Dean shot his brother a look then reached down between his own legs. Sam caught on and reached for the slider bar for the bench seat. Once Dean had it adjusted to his liking, Sam found his knees nearly wedged against the glove box.

“You just had to be shorter, didn’t you?” Sam glowered.

“Shut up, Sasquatch.” The venom was there even if the tone wasn’t.

The car turned over easily once Dean was able to reach the gas pedal. He glanced up then adjusted the rear view mirror and found Castiel’s face in the middle of the glass. Half of his face was in shadow while the other half was lit from the sodium lights of the parking lot.

“Where are we off to?”

As he looked at Cas in the mirror, he caught a glimmer around the edges of his vision. The lights of the parking lot shimmered and sheared -- when his eyes tried to follow, the lights leapt, remaining at the peripheral. The whole experience gave him vertigo. In a blink, the parking lot was gone.

“What the hell just happened?” Sam asked beside him.

Dean shifted his focus out the front windshield. Perplexed, he could only manage a guttural “huh.”

Castiel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You can turn the car off now, Dean,” he said before opening a door and sliding out. The angel gently shut it and ambled down the path in front of Singer Salvage Yard.

“He just --”

“Yeah.”

Dean turned to his brother and blinked. “Maybe you should --”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded and opened the door before unfolding himself from his cramped position in the seat. He jogged to catch up with the angel already halfway down the gravel and cement drive.

“Hi Bobby, it’s me, Dean,” he practiced, turning off the Impala’s engine. “Yeah, I’m a girl now. How’s tricks?”

“Idjit.” Dean mimicked the old hunter, running through the impending conversation. “What did you go and do something like that for?”

“Oh,” he shrugged, still gripping the steering wheel tight. His voice took on lighter tones as he impersonated himself. “You know, I wanted to try something different. Maybe we could go for a mani and pedi later, huh?”

Dean sighed and gave himself a slap. “Keep it together, dammit.”

* * *

 

“You boys sure do know how to keep an old man’s life interesting,” Bobby Singer stated with a sigh, tossing back what was left of the amber liquid in his glass.

A wry smile spread across Dean’s lips at the understatement. “We aim to please.”

They related the whole tale to Bobby, right from when they showed up in the ex-mining town, the destruction at the crime scene, the attempted exorcism of the fire pit, and to Dean’s change in gender. Castiel wandered about Bobby’s den, looking at various books and trinkets stacked around the room like a tourist window shopping. Several times, the old hunter had either cleared his throat and indicated to the angel to put the item down or outright stepped around his heavy desk to remove something from Castiel’s hands.

Finally he steered the angel to a chair and told him to sit. Castiel complied without quarrel, returning to his observation of the room by craning his neck around to look at everything he hadn’t studied. A small, amused smile stretched his lips.

Bobby poured himself another finger of scotch. He pointed the bottle at each of the brothers in turn, offering them a drink if they wished. Dean nodded and took the tumbler once Bobby had poured a shot worth into the bottom. He set it to his lips and inhaled before tipping the contents into his mouth and swallowing it all at once. The vapors burned in a familiar way on his tongue and throat as he exhaled through his mouth. He nodded to Bobby and the old hunter poured him another. Dean sipped at it this time; the initial burn gave way to the smoked oak flavor.

“Cas tried to whammy me, but couldn’t.”

“You might be S-O-L on this one, Dean,” Bobby said, empathy apparent in his voice. “This isn’t a soul swap or body snatch or anything thing like that. You appear to be exactly how you’d look had you been born with two X chromosomes. Your body has even worn the same.”

“Yeah, you’re still a bow-legged freak,” Sam added, smiling wide. Dean scowled and swapped hands with his glass before reaching up to slap Sam on the back of the head.

“Ow!”

“I can still kick your ass any day of the week, Sammy. Twice on Sundays if I have to.”

“Dean.” Castiel walked over from his chair. “I believe there may still be a chance.”

Dean paused another Sam slap in mid air and turned to look at the angel. “What? Really?”

“Yes. Perhaps.” He frowned in thought and shifted his gaze to Bobby. “You were right. He is fundamentally the same except for the shift in chromosomes. I felt as much when I tried to change him back. Technically, there is nothing wrong with Dean.”

“Cas, there’s nothing right with me -- everything is different! Hello, boobs!” As if to illustrate his point, he patted his new breasts through his jacket.

Castiel shook his head. “There’s been no damage to either your body or your soul -- everything is exactly as it should be if you had been born female.”

Dean blinked. “Are you saying I got mojoed back to birth?”

“No, not that.” Castiel stopped to ponder, searching for the words to illustrate his point. “You were simply switched. One minute male, the next, female. Everything that you have experienced up until that point is exactly the same -- your scars, healed broken bones, and yes, even your bow legs as Sam already pointed out.”

“Why?” Dean flipped an empty palm up in a gesture of confusion. “Why change me into a woman? It had us dead to rights -- Sammy was about to get skewered and I just jumped in.”

“I found this at the site.” Castiel pulled a small charred shape from his coat pocket. “It’s completely empty, so no danger, but it was once a vessel.”

Bobby held out his hand for the object which Castiel promptly gave him. He slid his glasses on before moving to the window. While holding it up to the light, he tumbled it around in order to observe it from every angle.

“Finger bone?” He asked the angel. “Let me guess -- young female.”

“Yes. This is what the adolescents disturbed and this is what reacted to the exorcism spell.”

“Why did it fry them and not us?” Sam asked, watching Bobby as he found a magnifying glass and continued to roll the worn bone in his fingertips.

“I suspect that also contains the answer to Dean’s change.” Castiel turned towards him. “When I touched you, I felt a terrific presence. It was wild and powerful and nothing I have ever fully experienced before. And it wanted to shatter me as if I needed rearranging. If I hadn’t broken contact....”

“Angel bits,” Dean said before he pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks to let out the sound on an explosion. “Is it a demon?”

“No. My original approximation might have been off, but she still is more ancient than anything I’ve felt before.”

“Aww, I was getting all excited thinking I might have part of your grandma here.” Dean smirked.

Castiel considered Dean’s words and the smile on his face. Slowly understanding, the angel nodded. “Great aunt several times removed,” he joked. “She must have had the desire to shatter and rearrange you, Dean. That is how you came to be female. To her, something about you didn’t fit with being male.”

Castiel paused and pulled another object from his pocket. He held it up by its edges and sighted Dean through it with one eye.

“I think this is yours.”

Dean recognized the object and glanced down at his fingers before looking back up at the angel. He eyes widened as he held up a palm.

“Thank you, Cas.” The angel dropped a silver ring into his hand and gave him a nod.

“It must have come off when I carried you out of the woods.” Sam watched as Dean slipped it onto its usual finger. It had always been loose -- now it didn’t fit at all.

“I hadn’t noticed it gone,” he said wistfully and sighed. When it wouldn’t remain on any finger, he shoved it into his pocket. “The damned thing got in the way anyway.”

Anger seethed from Dean. Frustrated with the lack of control he had over the entire situation, he did the only thing he could. Reaching for the bottle on Bobby’s desk, he unscrewed the cap on with his palm and poured enough for two into his glass.

“Here’s to my tolerance being the same.” A look dared the older hunter to say anything as he drank a mouthful.

Bobby busied himself with his books instead. “Describe what it looked like again.”

“Remember that one episode of _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ where they get stuck on the planet with oil pit beast that looks a bit like Darth Vader, and Riker screams out “something’s got me, Data!” as he gets sucked into the pit with it. Kinda like that, but more smokey.”

Bobby blinked slow. His brow furrowed. “Do I look like I spend my days watching TV? Now give me a description I can use.”

“Smokey like a demon, but had an oily sheen to it. Moved more like a liquid than a cloud.” Sam offered, sitting up taller in his chair to see which book Bobby had cracked open.

“Thank you. At least one of you has some brains,” Bobby grumbled. Sam beamed at the sideways compliment.

“Why don’t we just re-bone whatever it is?” Dean asked, mildly self-amused at his choice of verbs. “If the finger was the vessel, there oughta be a spell to shove the spirit back in it.”

“Can’t put smoke back in a cigarette, Dean.” Bobby shrugged then reconsidered. “Well, maybe Cas could.”

Castiel shook his head. “I cannot. It is impossible for me to even get close to it.”

“Who could -- assuming we even get that far?”

“A high order demon might be able to. That is the only remotely similar sensation I’ve had -- the same splintering.”

“Crowley,” Bobby and the Winchesters said in unison.

“We’re going to need a bargaining chip, you know.” Sam frowned.

“Balls,” Bobby swore, aptly summarizing the situation they were in.

 

 


	5. On How To Cheer Up Dean Winchester

“I’ve got feelers out looking,” Bobby spoke down to Dean’s torso through the gap between the belts and radiator. “For something big enough to get Crowley interested.”

Dean gave a noncommittal grunt from under the Impala. The car jostled a bit as he wrenched at the oil plug. Bobby heard the slide of the plastic oil tub across the cement as Dean moved it into place before fully uncorking the drain hole. Five gallons of used oil trickled from the old Chevy.

It was safer to talk to Dean with the weight of the Impala between them. Bobby could avoid eye contact while getting his message across and Dean could choose to participate or remain buried in the world of Detroit steel.

The car randomly jiggled. Dean worked his way through various fittings and joints, checking for looseness or rust. Bobby happily let Dean borrow his tools -- John would be proud to know his car had been kept in good working condition.

Bobby found it hard to find words. After a few aborted attempts, he swore at himself.

“Out with it, Bobby,” Dean grunted, shifting around under the car.

“This ain’t exactly easy, Dean.” He lifted his hat and itched his crown before replacing it.

“You think?” The click of a grease gun rose from the undercarriage. “Imagine how I feel.”

“Like your world has flipped on its ass? I know it -- I might not have had a cosmic sex change, but I know it.” Bobby shoved his hands into his vest pockets.

“All I wanted to say is that no one with half a brain will think any less of you. I won’t anyway.” He turned away and surveyed his domain. The sun hung low in the sky and long shadows stretched from the cars and scrap piles.

“You’ll still be one hell of a hunter -- you’re the best I know.”

“A Bobby Singer pep talk,” Dean’s laugh was tense, his voice tight from more than just the physical strain as he torqued down the exhaust manifold bolts. “My life is complete, now.”

“Shut up and take the damn compliment, boy.” Bobby toed the side of Dean’s boot before he realized what came out of his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, Bobby.” Dean scootched backwards out from beneath the undercarriage. He flipped over and used the bumper to help himself stand. He didn’t meet the old hunter’s eyes.

Bobby nodded. He lifted a hand from his pocket and vaguely pointed in the direction of the house. “I’m going before this gets any more awkward.”

Dean forced a grin and stretched himself over the Impala’s grill to get his hands inside her workings. He gently tugged at the timing belt checking for tightness and fought to make Bobby’s words only skim across him instead of sink in. That way lead to a meltdown -- he had managed to lock it away until he caught his reflection in a mirror, showered, or nature necessitated the need to empty his bladder. As long as Dean could avoid really thinking of his predicament, the easier it was to escape reality.

After a beat, he called after the old hunter’s retreating form. “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby didn’t turn around but tipped a finger to his hat in acknowledgment.

Dean heard Sam shuffle forward from further back in the covered garage. He had completely forgotten that he had given his younger brother the task of going through their gun cache with a bottle of Hoppes No. 9 and a cleaning rod.

He could smell the solvent as Sam came closer. It made him immediately homesick for his father.

“Are you ever going to talk about it?” Sam asked, rubbing a cloth down the barrel of a Taurus 9mm.

Dean sagged, letting out a jagged breath in exasperation. “First Bobby, now you.”

“You’ve got to talk about it sometime.”

“No, I don’t.” Leaning over the engine, Dean turned the wingnut atop the carburetor. “I don’t have to do a damn thing.”

“So you’re just going to ignore it?”

“Yep.” Dean set the black cap plate aside and pulled out the air filter. He blew between the fins, examining the fibers for damage or excess debris.

“You going to ignore it for the next fifty, sixty years if we can’t fix you?”

“You bet.”

“Dean--”

“Shut it, Sam.” He leveled a hard glare at his brother. “I mean it.”

Sam returned the look. He calmly folded the cloth over the gun and gave it a soft underhand lob into the passenger’s seat of the Impala before squaring himself to Dean.

“No.” A feral grin turned Sam’s lips. He shifted his weight and readied his stance in invitation, determined to make Dean talk even if he had to beat it out of him.

Dean took the bait. He calmly set the filter back into its place before digging his feet into the concrete. In a hard sprint, he closed the gap to Sam and buried a shoulder into him like a linebacker into a tackling dummy. Even though he was expecting it, the intensity caught Sam by surprise. The blow drove the air from his lungs and he scrambled to get his feet back under him.

Dean plowed Sam broadside into a tower of truck tires stacked against a car. They gave Sam something to push off of for a small chance of traction. He spun out from under Dean’s shoulder and tried to step away. Sam exceeded the reach but couldn’t exceed the speed his brother employed in close quarters. Dean got a fist knotted into Sam’s shirt and kept him within striking distance.

Sam dropped his elbow quick enough to deflect Dean’s right hook to the ribs. Arms unable to get full range, Sam swung a leg instead. His thigh connected with Dean’s side -- he stumbled sideways from the blow and lost his grip on Sam’s shirt.

Sam sent a jab and it met Dean on the side of the mouth. Tasting blood, Dean backed away and lifted a hand to his face to wipe at the gash. His fingers came away with a slick of red.

“Asshole,” Dean spat.

A sweeping punch caught Sam unprepared as Dean angled his shoulder into him again. Unable to get a guard there in time, Sam took the blow to his stomach. He closed his fists together and slammed them down into Dean’s back. The strike broke him loose enough that Sam could get an forearm down and under Dean’s chin to catch him in a guillotine choke.

“You dumbfuck,” Sam growled, holding his brother fast, receiving another punch in the ribs. He lifted up on the hold, wedging his forearm into Dean’s windpipe to cut his air. “I’ll choke you.”

Dean answered him with a weak punch to the side of the neck. He twisted in Sam’s grip as he grabbed at a shoulder and the opposite thigh. Driving his knee into the back of Sam’s, Dean pulled him backwards off his feet. The motion collapsed Sam onto his back and Dean dropped him hard to the ground in a heap. Dean continued to spin his brother towards him, loosening Sam’s grip around his neck.

“I watch MMA too, bitch,” Dean gasped as he scrambled out of the hold, kneeing Sam hard in the chest in passing.

Sam fish mouthed for a breath. When air returned to his lungs, he managed a weak laugh. Dean jabbed a fist into Sam’s side and used him as prop to help himself stand. Sam’s laugh turned into a grunt and an “ow.”

Standing triumphantly over his brother, Dean probed his lip with the tip of his tongue before reaching up to gingerly touch it.

“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about losing any bar fights.”

Dean’s wide smile was laced with red.

 

* * *

 

Castiel appeared to Dean later that night, touching down a distance from the car he had made his evening drinking companion. If he wasn’t four beers into the case in the cooler sharing the hood with him, Dean might have startled at suddenness of it. As it was, he had gotten used to the tell-tale wing beat that generally happened a split second before an angel assumed solid form.

Castiel frowned, his brow furrowing deeply between his eyes.

“You’re upset,” he stated, his head tipping as if trying to understand while he walked forwards to Dean.

Dean’s reply was to lift the bottle to his lips and drain what little was left.

“Why does this make a difference?” The angel came to a stop directly in front him, his head still in that curious dog gesture as he indicated Dean’s body with a hand.

“Why? Because it’s not who I am, that’s why. I’m not this!” Dean reached for one of his own breasts and squeezed it just for good measure.

Cas sighed. It was long and suffering. “The parts that make you a unique individual -- these important parts are there regardless of the vessel’s form, Dean. Your life’s experiences. Your dreams, desires.”

“Now you’re starting to sound like an after-school special.”

A look came over Castiel’s face. It was his usual I’m confused, but I’m not going to draw attention to it look. Dean managed a weak smile in part because it was hard to remain angry at the angel.

“Why do you find this form so objectionable? I thought you were appreciative of the female body.”

“Yeah, when I’m about to do one.” He raised both hands and made circles between thumb and forefinger. In a crude gesture intimating sex, he bumped the circles together. “I guess that’s not even possible any more.”

“Oh, fornication.” Castiel nodded his head as if it all was suddenly apparent. “Is that all you’re worried about?”

Dean blinked at him. Without speaking he flipped open the cooler lid and pulled out another beer. He pointed it at the angel as an offering. Castiel debated for a moment before nodding. Dean set his churchkey to it, popping the cap before handing it to him. Dean did the same with one of his own.

With uncoordinated effort, Castiel mimicked Dean, crawling up onto the car to sit on the hood.

“Cas,” Dean began after a few minutes, his voice distant. “I’ve been one way my entire life. Now suddenly I’m not. It’s not something I find easy to adjust to.”

“I believe I can understand that.”

“I kinda skipped over all those other grieving stages and went right to anger.” Dean took a sip. “I can do anger. Anger’s easy.”

Without preamble, Castiel drank down the beer in his hand in one go. He licked his lips and nodded, then proceeded to let loose a belch.

“You animal.” Dean gave the angel a small laugh.

Castiel looked at the empty bottle before turning his gaze to Dean. “Was that not what I was supposed to do? I thought it was called “shotgunning,” although I don’t see how consuming an alcoholic beverage relates to firearms or passenger seats.”

“You sort of have the right idea, but your technique is off. It’s better with a can -- I’ll show you some time.”

The alcohol started to get to Dean in the way he hoped. It made the edges fuzzy and took the burn off of the bruises from his fight with Sam. He couldn’t work up the energy to care any more. Shoving the cooler further up the hood to the windshield, he made more room, laying back on the rusty metal with his legs dangling off the edge. His boots found the bumper and he braced his heels just enough to be comfortable.

“Dean, I’m sorry I couldn’t change you back.”

“S’okay, Cas.” Dean stared at the stars with unfocused eyes. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”


	6. Three Days, And Copious Quantities of Alcohol Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have had a bit too much fun writing Crowley. Just a bit.

“ _Pour moi?_ You shouldn’t have.” Crowley lifted the glass to his nose and took a sniff before letting his lips come to the edge. He took a sip and sputtered. “No, really, you shouldn’t have. Did you filter this through your own kidneys first, Singer, because this -- this is total piss.”

Bobby scowled at the demon and opened his mouth to reply.

“Shut up, Crowley,” Dean beat him to it, stepping around the old hunter.

The demon’s eyebrows shot skyward as he looked up and down Dean’s new body. A slow smirk spread over his lips as he got over his initial shock, his eyebrows slowly sinking to help complete the leer.

“Lose your nuts, Squirrel?”

“Cute. Real cute.”

“No worries -- I’m keeping my day job.” Despite his original protests at its low quality, Crowley downed the last of the scotch in the glass. After setting it on the table in front of him, he smoothed a hand down his chest, flattening his tie. The hand worked open the buttons of his black suit coat before he sat down in a chair. Crowley rested an ankle on a knee and flicked a spot of lint off of a pant leg.

“You done preening?” Dean asked impatiently.

“I’m getting comfortable for the pending boredom.” Crowley smirked. “I assume you asked me here for some reason other than my entertainment.”

“Yes. I want you to set up a parley.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow hitched up Crowley’s forehead. “Need a date to the prom?”

“No, jackass, I need you to talk to whatever it is that did this to me,” Dean spat, indicating his body with a hand.

“No need to get testy.” The demon held up a hand before pointing to Castiel. “Bird brain can’t do it?”

“I cannot,” Castiel answered.

“Hmm,” Crowley pursed his lips in thought as he scrutinized Dean. The look washed over Dean like a dirty film. “So “I’ve got the money and you’ve got the honey” as you Yanks so lovingly put. I’ll just need a little taste.”

Despite trying not to, Dean took a step back. “I am not having sex with you, Crowley. No way, no how.”

“You don’t think the King of Hell gets more than he knows what to do with? You’d be surprised at the questionable morals of some virgins desiring the gift of multiple orgasm.” Crowley bragged with a smile, his hands suggestively caressing up and down the armrests of the chair. “As intriguing as the prospect of getting a leg over with Dean Winchester actually is, that’s not how this will work.”

“No?”

Crowley gave Dean a long-suffering sigh. “Do I need to explain sex ed to you now too, Squirrel? Me male, you female. I give, you receive. How in Hell’s back nine could I get anything other than an STD from you?”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“You know how he does his deals, Dean.” Sam supplied. “He’ll use a kiss to draw whatever it is out of you into himself.”

“Bravo, Moose.” Crowley golf clapped, his mouth forming a crooked smile.

“What do you need for this little spit swap?” Bobby asked. Dean cringed at the choice in words -- the old hunter shrugged an apology.

Crowley scratched his chin, running his nails against the stubble. After some thought, he reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a folded square of parchment. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. It shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Bobby stepped forward and took the proffered grocery list. He unfolded it and started to read through the list of spell items.

“Oh, and of course, there’s the slight detail of my fee.”

Bobby exchanged a look with Dean. Unable to find anything of worth, they summoned Crowley regardless on the remote chance the demon would help. With it looking like Crowley would leave if no payment was offered, Dean’s spirit sank.

“Uh, about that,” Bobby began but trailed off. Crowley’s eyebrow hitched at the hunter’s hesitance.

“What Bobby means to say,” Castiel continued, stepping forward as he pulled a mahogany box from his pocket. “Is that this should suffice.”

“Cas?” Dean looked at the angel in confusion.

Castiel tumbled the wood over in his hands. Not much larger than a ring box, it was intricately carved with onyx and pearl inlay in the flowered detail. Crowley’s eyes widened when he noticed what Castiel carried and immediately sat up.

“Is...is that what I think it is?”

“What is it, Cas?” Dean moved towards the angel.

“Yes,” the angel replied to Crowley.

“Cas!” Dean tried again.

“Dean, do not interfere,” Castiel warned, giving him a stern look. Dean held up his hands in surrender and took a step back.

“Really?” Crowley licked his lips. He jutted his chin towards Dean. “You’d give it up for that mutt?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied as he walked over to the demon. “You will receive it as soon as Dean is back as he was.”

Crowley moved to the edge of his seat, leaning closer to the angel. “Can I see it? You know, to verify it’s authenticity?”

Castiel nodded. Shielding it from view by the Winchesters or Bobby with his body, he opened the lid. Crowley groaned in pleasure when he saw the contents.

“Yes, that will do nicely.”

* * *

 

Crowley stalked the outer edges of the demon trap like a tiger pacing a cage. After he downed the potion of the required ingredients and spoke the incantation, he reluctantly stepped into the large, bright fluorescent orange sigil sprayed onto Bobby’s floor. In theory, whatever he exorcised from Dean would remain in the trap with him.

Hands wedged deep in his pockets, Crowley glanced between Dean and the arc he was walking.

“I swear to God, Crowley,” Dean managed the most severe tone he could and held up a fist between them. “If you slip me tongue, I will rip it out of your head and beat you to death with it before I shove it up your ass.”

“Now, now, pet, settle down,” the demon laughed. “No need get your knickers in a twist -- although, I suppose that’s more literal than figurative now.” He came to a stop and scratched at his brow with a forefinger, mocking thought. “Are you a satin or lace kind of girl, Dean?”

“Fuck you.” Balling his fists at his side, Dean steeled himself and took a step into the trap. It felt no different than any other part of the room, but now he willingly stood within striking distance of the demon. “Can we just get this done so I can go wash my mouth out with gasoline and set my head on fire?”

Crowley continued his path. Despite being trapped in the circle until its lines were broken, he walked the area like he owned it -- a cat on the prowl. He cut closer to Dean on each pass, gauging the other’s reaction and reading the current in the wind.

“I’m getting stiff just smelling the fear on you, Dean. It was wonderfully pungent before. Now it’s...” Crowley trailed off as he thought of the appropriate adjective. His smile widened when he found it. “Moist.”

He took a step forward and Dean fought the urge to parallel the move by taking a step of his own backwards.

“I mean, what are you so afraid of? What has you practically pissing yourself? Certainly not this,” Crowley said, waving a finger in the space between their bodies, indicating the exchange that was about to occur. “This is nothing compared to….”

“Oh.” The demon’s gaze narrowed and a smile widened his lips. “You’re terrified of getting stuck like this. Dean Winchester, afraid of being a woman? Afraid of having to take it instead of give it? And here I thought you were enlightened.”

“Did I ask for your opinion, Crowley?” Dean gritted his teeth. Normally he had a foot and some on the demon; now only slightly taller, he didn’t have the advantage of height to back up a threat.

“No, but I give it anyway.” The demon sighed. “You with something to prove -- that would be amusing to watch, _n’est-ce pas?_ If I thought you feisty before, you’d be downright rabid now. But you’re too worried about your poor missing tadge and nadgers to see the fun you could have.” Crowley smiled. “You’d be a force with which to be reckoned juiced on estrogen.”

“You done with your little girl power chat?” Dean glowered. “I know I am.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way -- you sure you don’t want a little tongue? I’ll throw it in at no extra cost.” His eyebrows wagged as he stepped further into Dean’s personal space. Dean stiffened at the demon’s approach and resolutely shook his head. “Your loss, Squirrel.” Crowley shrugged. For as much of an ass he could be, he was oddly gentle about it as he lifted his hands to cup Dean’s face.

Crowley closed his eyes slowly; when they opened, a blood red haze rose from the sockets. A chant began to roll from his lips, its meaning lost on Dean. The intonation and shape of the words slipped over him like wet velvet, weighing him down and sapping the strength from his muscles. He revolted at the feeling of wrongness about it as the blanket drowned him. Dean gave one final, involuntary struggle but Crowley held him fast.

The ritual was sealed when the demon moved closer and kissed him. The blanket haze began to lift as Crowley extracted it through Dean’s lips. At first it slipped easily into Crowley, but something snagged at its edges, tearing the fabric. Some part of Dean didn’t want to let it go, to let it escape. The blanket shifted and swirled before starting its withdrawal again, sweeping through him to gather any tendrils. Whenever it swept in a greater arc, he felt the sensation of drowning and fought to keep away from it. The remaining portions pulled from him in a rush, leaving him gasping for breath at their departure.

“You bloody idiot. You have no idea what’s in you, you really don’t.” Crowley’s head lolled as something akin to euphoria rolled over him. His eyes burned even brighter, the red haze luminescent. “You’d have it all by the short and curlies, but no, you want to get rid of it! A little parting gift,” he smiled, expression somewhere between pained and stoned. “In case you change your mind.”

Crowley blew Dean a kiss. The gesture carried with it a glamour -- Dean felt the itch over his scalp like a thousand tiny insects began to creep over each follicle of hair. His hands raised to his head at the sensation, instinct demanding that he try to paw them off. Instead he was met with a fistful of his own hair as it rapidly grew to shoulder length.

“Now, get out of my circle.” Crowley lifted a hand and made a dismissive gesture, buffeting Dean with an unseen force. Dean stumbled backwards across the paint line and out of the demon trap.

Sam caught him by the shoulders and held him upright. “Was that as gross as it looked?”

“I think I threw up in my mouth a little, Sammy.”

“You ungrateful cow -- I heard that!” Crowley called out from the circle as he doubled over, clawing at his abdomen in pain. Face contorting, he gasped. “The things I do for you boys!”

“Be merciful, my lady,” he managed to croak out before his whole body went rigid. Head snapping back, his mouth opened in a jaw cracking yawn and the crimson smoke of his aspect billowed out of the man. Hot on his heels was a smaller jet of oily black. It was the same as what the Winchesters had tried to exorcise in the clearing.

Crowley was caged by the cylinder of the demon trap. Divested of the meat suit that was now slumped on the floor, he swam in orbit against its edges, plume rippling and rolling as it went. When the coils of the oily tar met the red smoke, it wove itself into the crimson nebula.

“You know, if I didn’t know what that was, I’d think it was actually kind of beautiful,” Dean announced as he watched, mostly recovered from the ordeal. “It kinda looks like one of those weird impressionist paintings, but moving.”

Crowley paused against the edge of the demon trap, the eddies of his form swirling back and forth. The coils of the black tar shimmered as they swirled. With sudden abruptness, two coils took the shape of jagged obsidian needles and shot into the red smoke, skewering it. The smoke began to move erratically in the attempt to escape, but the coils turned into rolling spikes. It churned through Crowley.

“Good Lord, he’s getting a reaming,” Bobby spoke, brow raising in surprise.

“I concur.” Castiel nodded. “He is -- as they say -- not having a fun time of it.”

“You can see him in that?” Sam asked. “Like what he looks like other than the smoke?”

“Yes.”

“What’s happening, anyway?” Bobby turned to the angel.

“Doing what he does best. Negotiating.”

“Negotiating what?” Dean asked Castiel. Watching the black smoke shred through Crowley like so much meat in a grinder was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. He might hate the demon, but whatever was happening looked more painful than necessary. The red smoke zagged around the cylinder in an attempt to escape, but the black ink cut it off at every turn, gnashing like it was trying to tear and nibble Crowley to death.

“Terms of engagement I believe.”

“Jesus,” Sam gasped at one particularly brutal attack. Spiked appendages caught hold of Crowley’s form, tearing through the smoke to the point that they could see the room on the other side of the demon trap right through his aspect. More shot out from within the coiling surface of the black tar, catching the crimson like hooks through meat. As the spikes began to retract, they dragged Crowley towards a gaping maw that had formed.

Crowley gave one last shudder and a panicked thrash before becoming absorbed into the pitch.

The pitch unfurled like a diver coming out of a tuck position. As the shape moved towards the edge of the demon trap, it began to resolve. Two feet set down followed by a long expanse of leg and thigh. Hips gave way to a round abdomen and breasts. Arms circled through the inky smoke, drawing downwards as if wings. Hair swirled in great waves.

She moved without solid form and continually changed appearance. In two steps she was through the demon trap and moving towards the group.

“Uh, Dean.” Bobby’s voice faltered.

“Yeah, I see it,” the elder Winchester mumbled and swallowed hard. The shape paused, shifting her resemblance of eyes over each person. The smoke-as-clothing about her body rolled like sails in a gentle breeze.

“Um,” Dean started then coughed, clearing his throat. ”Nod if you can understand me.”

Her eyes flittered across Dean briefly before her attention turned to Castiel, the sails of her clothing increasing the speed of its dance. The angel drew a quick breath as a rigor grasped his body. An unseen hand grabbed him and lifted him from the ground, leaving the tips of his shoes dragging on Bobby’s floor. Pained, Castiel moaned and fought what was forcibly extracting his essence through the eyes, nose, and mouth of Jimmy Novak.

“Hey, wait a minute!”

“Dean, no,” Sam warned stepping forward to grip his brother’s shoulder but he was shrugged off.

Without thinking about the amount of power it took to suck an angel out of its vessel, Dean moved towards Castiel, his eyes never leaving the swirling smoke. “Hey, I’m the one talking to you, not the angel!”

“Dean--” Castiel gasped, glancing at the eldest Winchester out of the corner of his eye. His agony was evident -- hands made white-knuckled claws at his sides as his entire body shook in the grip that seized him. The white-blue vapor tried to swim against the current tearing it out, struggling to get back into its body. Dean heard the angel whimper his name once more and he snapped. A rage boiled up from deep within his body and surged through him with a life of its own.

“Set him down!” Dean stepped in front of Castiel, his body taking the shape of an animal about to attack. “Now!”

He caught a brightness in his periphery and for a moment he thought it was Castiel’s form still drifting by him, but it was the wrong color. Blinding white tinted with red rolled around him, whipping his now-long hair about his face and shoulders. It only gave him the slightest pause before he redirected his attention, seething at black smoke in front of him.

A rumbling groan came up from within the smoke, her clothing snapping like tattered flags in a stiff wind. The groan modulated, shaping vowels and word sounds. Castiel still struggled, the sound of his soles dragging across the wood in a jagged dance loud in Dean’s ears.

“Bitch, I will shred you.” As insane as it was, Dean felt no doubt in the ability to do so straight down to his core. The brightness intensified till all he could see was the shape of smoke. “Put him down!”

The noise from the smoke finally formed a word Dean recognized. _Yes._

Castiel hit the ground in a sagged heap as the invisible grip let go of him. Dean heard his brother and Bobby run to the fallen angel, but he didn’t divert his attention from the swirling black in front of him. The white-blue of Castiel’s essence shifted direction, moving like a recoiled spring back into his vessel.

“What did you do to me?” Dean demanded.

Imagery surged into his brain as the smoke spoke again. The word love was followed by the word vengeance along with a picture show of his life. Anyone he had ever truly loved or cared about made a cameo. Memories he thought he had thoroughly repressed came streaming back, snatching the breath from his lungs in their weight and measure of pain. All those he had tried to protect but failed cried his name and the hurt mixed with the fury of failure in a blaze of retribution.

“Why are you showing me this?” Dean weakened under the onslaught, not prepared for the wounding of it all. He forced himself to breathe if only to dull its sharpness.

 _Same._ The swirling of the form slowed, returning to the visage of the woman wrapped in a drape of pitch oil.

“What do you mean?”

 _Same._ She shifted again and her clothing parted. In the space where a human heart would be burned a fire that was too bright to look at.

“I don’t understand!”

“There--” Castiel began to speak, his voice ragged. Dean turned his head to look down at the angel propped in seated position and held upright by Sam. “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for friends. When I sharpen my flashing sword and begin to carry out justice, I will take revenge on my enemies. Does it sound familiar?” Castiel was pale and a sweaty sheen coated his face, but he managed to gaze intently at the elder Winchester. “I saw all that she showed you, Dean.”

“Are you saying this thing sees Dean as some sort of vengeance spirit?” Bobby asked from his spot kneeling beside the angel. Castiel nodded in reply.

“Yes, and a protector. Love and wrath are opposite sides of the same coin.”

 _Same,_ she said one more time as if confirming Castiel’s approximation. Dean faced her again. She had returned to her original form, once again covering the fire in her chest.

“Will you change me back?”

She was knotting up again, folding back within herself, the coils spinning clockwise and counterclockwise against themselves. Her aspect dissolved till it was no longer recognizable as even vaguely human. The edges turned jagged and spun then began a spasm in a motion Dean could only categorize as a cosmic up-chuck.

Vomited in an impressive arc, Crowley’s crimson plume sank to the floor and spread like a thick fog but he didn’t sink through the floorboards and dissolve like they expected him to. Instead he remained flat, his aspect and its eddies barely moving.

“Shit,” Bobby made the motion to stand, but Sam was already on his feet, racing to the demon trap and the abandoned meat suit within. Pulling out a buck knife, he opened the blade and scratched at the paint on the floor, breaking the circle by creating a small gap. Crowley sensed the sudden shift in magic lines. Moving with what Sam could best describe as a limp, his cloud crept forward to find the abandoned body.

Sam watched in slight disgust as the cloud formed tentacles and forced their way into the man on the floor through his nostrils.

“Where did she go?” Dean had turned away from the coiling mass to watch Crowley lurch back into his body. When he turned again, the smoke had dispersed. He met Castiel’s eyes as he searched the room. The angel simply jutted his chin in his direction.

“You reabsorbed her, Dean.”

A pained and annoyed whine came from the man inside the demon trap. He was slowly coming around. Sam stood up quick and backed away, blinking at the body before realizing the circle was open. He crossed to the can of spray paint on the bookshelf and shook it hard before popping the top. Chanting through the sealing spell, he made the circle whole again with a inch-long draw of blaze orange.

“Fuck all, I hate you Winchesters,” Crowley spat against the wood floor, lacking the energy to do much more than sprawl where he lay.

* * *

 

“You kinda went all Drew Barrymore _Firestarter_ there, Dean.”

“What?”

“You know,” Sam said, raising his hands to parallel either ear and modeled an explosion of hair with his fingers. “ _Foom_. It was actually a little scary.”

“You mean I went super saiyan?” Dean asked, a smile forming over his lips.

Sam grinned. “Well, I was going to say magical girl transformation--”

Dean’s smile shifted to a scowl and he jabbed a punch into Sam’s bicep. “Magically transform this, Sammy.”

“As touching as your little love fest is, I could use some help over ‘ere.” Crowley managed to get himself up to a seated position. “Bloody Norah, I need a drink. At this rate, I’ll take that pisswater you pass off as alcohol, Singer.”

“Well, when you ask so nicely.” Bobby grudgingly walked over to his desk and grabbed a tumbler and the bottle of scotch before crossing over to Crowley in his circle. With the heel of his boot, Bobby scuffed out a gap in the trap. After inverting the tumbler over the bottle, he held out a free hand for the demon to grasp.

Crowley slowly stood as Bobby pulled. Finally upright, he took the bottle from the old hunter and stumbled towards the closest chair. He fell into it and poured himself half a glass. With a hand he wrenched loose his tie.

“Did you get anything while you were kicking around in there?” Dean asked the demon. Crowley slumped boneless in the chair, his head lolled back.

“If she’s what I think she is, you’re well and truly buggered. She feels right at home in you -- Hell only knows why -- and isn’t about to leave.”

“Explain,” Dean impatiently demanded.

Crowley took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes. “Cas probably knows the story better than I do, but God was a bit of a cock up when he first started. His creations were crude, imprecise, and wildly violent. They were -- well, let’s say they had the subtlety of a chainsaw.”

“Yes, I have heard the tales.” Castiel said from his chair. The angel still looked pale and worn, but not nearly in the same condition as Crowley. “Fear, joy, anger, sorrow -- all of the primal impulses and emotions were created first. When He wasn’t pleased with them, He set them aside to make my kind. We were the antithesis of His first creations.”

The demon tipped his glass at Dean. “Your girl is one of these Ancient Ones. What you do either pleases her or it doesn’t; no chance for parole. “Hell hath no fury” and all of that. You’re lucky God got a little better with his detail work as time went on -- the angels, the earth, you lot.”

“Why didn’t she kill us?”

“I’d assume that whatever you and your brother did pleased her.”

“I tried to exorcise her and shot her full of rock salt.” Sam spoke from his chair near Bobby’s desk. “How is that pleasing?

“Fuck if I know then!” Crowley managed a measure of ire. “Maybe big brother falling on his sword yet again for your sorry ass gave her a bit of a chuckle. Maybe a few hundred million years mellowed her out. Something tipped the scales in your favor or you both would be crispy critters with only a shoebox’s worth of ash to share between you.”

“It looks good on you by the by,” Crowley stated as an afterthought, pointing at Dean. When he received a confused look in reply he gave a slight smile. “The hair. You certainly wear it better than your brother.”

“Why are you even still here?” Sam stared at Crowley, annoyed with the insults the demon was casting his way.

“He lacks the ability to leave,” Castiel answered for the demon. “As do I for that matter.”

Crowley glared. “I dare you to take it up the arse multiple times without lube, Moose, and see how well you fare.”

Dean blinked. “That was mental imagery I could have lived without.” He redirected his attention to Castiel, eyes wide. “Do you mean you’re no longer --”

“He means the batteries are dead,” Crowley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

“That is correct.”

“Oh joy,” Bobby grumbled from behind his desk. “You mean I have to listen to you pissing on about everything that doesn’t suit you until you’ve got enough juice to go wherever it is you go?”

“Being stuck at His Majesty’s pleasure with the likes of you lot isn’t exactly my idea of a good time either.”

“Great, just fucking great.” Dean paced. “We aren’t one step closer to figuring this out.”

 


	7. Epilogue

Crowley’s gift caused Dean no end of trouble.

“How the hell do you put up with this shit and not shave your head?” Dean asked Sam as he spit his hair out of his mouth for the hundredth time.

“You get used to it.” Sam shrugged. “Or you use one of these and quit bitching about it.”

Sam held up a hair tie and Dean swore. He snatched the tie out of his brother’s hand.

“Remind me to shoot that bastard the next time I see him. Figures he’d spin a curse to make my hair grow back to length as soon as it was cut.” The brothers had taken clippers to Dean’s head twice before realizing there would be no military high and tight in his immediate future.

With no shortage of skill, Dean raised his left thigh and wedged it against the steering wheel to keep the Impala on a straight line. Using both hands he pulled the errant hair out of his face and made an untidy ponytail at his nape with the tie.

The Winchesters were making good time for another corner of South Dakota to investigate a ghost haunt and lay salt and fire. Bobby had sent them on the road again shortly after the demon and the angel regained their “collective mojo” as the old hunter put it.

“I don’t need you moping around. Go out there and do some work,” Bobby had said before kicking them out with a list of potential cases. He wanted his solitude back and it showed.

Sam’s cell rang. He dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open. Blinking at the caller ID, he wondered why they’d get a call so soon after heading out.

“What’s wrong, Bobby?”

“Put Dean on. Just when I thought I got rid of this bastard, he shows up again.”

Sam heard Crowley’s offended whine in the background.

“Dean, it’s Crowley.”

“What the--” Dean looked between Sam and the proffered phone. Grabbing it out of his brother’s hand, he placed it to his ear.

“What do you want?” He snapped.

“Hullo to you too, sweetheart,” the demon chuckled. “Did you miss me?”

“Bite me.”

“You first, princess.” Crowley paused and his voice shifted to more neutral tones. “Now, with all the pleasantries out of the way, I might have some information for you.”

“About what?” Dean had an idea of what Crowley wanted to discuss, but it brought him amusement to antagonize the demon.

“Are you typically this dense, or is it a particularly special day for you? Information about your sudden lack of balls, you twit.”

Dean smiled at the mental image he drew up of Crowley yelling into the phone, his right eyebrow hooking higher and higher. “I’m listening.”

“There’s this itinerant friend of a friend of a friend -- a frienenemy, actually -- who had some dealings with the Ancient Ones a time or two in the way back. If anyone knows how to get that genie back in her bottle, it’ll be him. Bring booze -- preferably something older than you two idiots combined. He has a sweet tooth for single malt.”

“Why are you doing this, Crowley?” Dean asked after he relayed the address to Sam to write down.

“Unfortunately my payment is tied up with you returning to your old annoying self or I would have given you the shove off long ago. Let’s just say I want what the angel promised me and leave it at that.”

“What was in that box anyway?”

Crowley chuckled. “A gentleman never tells.”

“You’re not a gentleman, Crowley.”

“This is true, but I’m still not telling. Tootles.”

Dean closed the phone and tossed it back to his brother. The Impala’s engine growled louder as he bore down on the gas pedal.


End file.
